Homeward Warfare
by picpicpic
Summary: Following the disasters of the Nepal tour, Charles comes home, but must battle his demons. PTSD.
1. 1

**1 |**

 _"I'm done,"_ he whispers into her ear, his arms around her, holding her tight, the words just flow out of him _, "that was the last one. I'm not going back. I'm never leaving you again."_

She can feel him shaking in her arms. Of all the times he came back from a tour, he's never been this affected, determined yet sad. Extremely sad.

Having heard only some of the horrible things that happened during this last tour, she couldn't anticipate the state she'd find him in when she'd finally meet him at Brize. It seemed every day piled a new god-awful challenge, every outing turned into traumatic experience. She'd never seen him so lost.

Taking her by surprise again, not even concerned about his soldiers being around, he falls to his knees, kissing her belly and murmuring things she cannot hear, his eyes raising to meet hers in wondering excitement. She nods lightly in confirmation, her fingers going through his hair, a smile spreading across her lips as happy tears fill her eyes.  
It's the one good piece of news they'd share on skype. Though she'd meant to keep it under wraps until he came home, she couldn't bear the pain in his eyes as he told of the things he was going through. She had to give him something to hold on to in his fight to come back home. And it was worth it, for this look of awe and happiness on his face. His shy blush as he dares to believe there is still some good in the world. That he'd come back home to his beautiful, pregnant wife. And there he was, on his knees, worshiping her, body and soul.

 _"Dawesy!"_

A very familiar bantering voice pulls her attention from her kneeling husband, she lifts her head to find Brains and Fingers smiling broadly at her, the surprise evident in their eyes.

 _"Is this what I think it means, Dawes?"_ Brains comes close, as Charles rises to his feet.

 _"That's James to you, Brains"_ she quips quickly, before Charles can comment, her smile broadening as she nods bashfully.

 _"Ahh! That's great! Congratulations!"_ Brains pulls her in for a bear hug, lifting her in the air with excitement.

 _"Put my wife down, Brains. Now. That's an order."_ Charles' voice is stern but there's a smile playing on his lips.

 _"Sorry sir,"_ Brain retorts as he lets Molly go, then turns to face his CO, a more somber look on his face _, "Congrats sir, that's very happy news."_

 _"I think so too, Brains, thank you."_ Charles answers sincerely, taking both Brain's and Finger's offered hands. They then slap him lightly on the back as they say their goodbyes.

 _"You ready to go home, Boss?"_ Molly teases quietly as he wraps his arms around her again, breathing her in.

 _"Yes, Molly. More than ever._ "

As he sits in the passenger seat, letting his eyes roam over her, he thinks of all that has changed in the years they've known each other. Looking at her now, focused on her driving, he can see where time has begun to show its signs. She's as beautiful as ever, even more than he'd dared to remember, but she's also grown more mature and confident. The once skittish cockney girl is now a self-assured, accomplished woman. God knows she can stand her own, never one to stand down from what's important to her, she has learned, though, to pick her fights.

 _"Your gaping is kind'a distracting, mate. What are you thinking so hard about?"_

 _"You. And you're right, I am hard."_ He smirks at her, happy with his joke.

 _"Oi, head out of the gutter!"_ she smiles at him, feigning shock. _"At least until we get home,"_ she laughs, her eyes twinkling at him as she licks her lips, _"my driving is not good enough for that. Yet."_

 _"Eyes on the road, Molls, before we both end up in the gutter."_ He laughs.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, Molly tries again.

"So, what were you thinking about?"

 _"Nothing really. You. You're beautiful,"_ his finger finds its way across the headrest to stroke a tendril of her hair. _"How are you feeling? How have you been? Any morning sickness yet?"_

 _"I'm fine. A bit more tired, maybe, than usual, but nothing I can't deal with. There was a bit of morning sickness, wasn't too bad. It's mostly died down now. Though I am becoming sensitive to smells. Which is not great, seeing that I work around blood, sweat, and medication all day."_

Charles takes time to think this over. They're going to have to talk about what her plan is with the pregnancy.

 _"Any cravings yet? Are you wanting any weird combinations?"_

 _"No weird combinations, no. I do have one craving though. Been waiting out."_

 _"What do you crave, baby? Tell me,"_

 _"You, Charles,"_ she says as she parks the car outside their home, _"I only crave you."_


	2. 2

_A/N - thank you all for your kind reviews and support!_

 **2 |**

They couldn't even wait to get to their bedroom. Pouncing on each as they came through the front door, round 1 was in the hallway, still fully clothed.

Their second round found them in the shower, Molly having cheekily commented on his odor and Charles unwilling to let her go. He held her tight and in desperation as he plunged into her, letting the hot water wash over his body and mind.

Laying in their bed, holding each other after round three, Molly can't help but giggle. _"They put stamina in the water over there or something?"_

Charles laughs with her, _"Wouldn't know, I only drank imported bottled water, didn't I?"_ Then something changes, emotion flickers across his face, his tone becomes somber as he squeezes her tightly to him, _"I just really missed you, Molly."_

 _"Anyway,"_ his tone lightens again, his eyes finding hers, a cheeky grin on his face, _"you seemed to keep up."_

 _"Pregnancy hormones,"_ she winks at him, _"I can't get enough of you."_

 _"I can live with that,"_ Charles answers as he flips her on her back and climbs over her again, his hand skimming over her body. _"Your body's changing,"_ he reflects softly, _"I like it."_

 _"Yeah, well, it's also more sensitive, so,"_

 _"Shit. Did I hurt you? I'm sorry."_ His eyes find hers and she can see the anxiety and remorse in them.

 _"No,"_ she says kindly, taking his hand and kissing his palm, _"you didn't hurt me, you were just a bit… overexuberant."_

 _"Overexuberant, huh? Big words."_

 _"Yeah well, I've had some time on my hands. Overexuberant and weirdly possessive,"_ she lifts an eyebrow at him, finally addressing what she's really been getting at.

 _"Well,"_ he squirms, mumbling almost apologetically, _"you're my wife."_

 _"True. And very happy to be. You've just never had the need to remind me of that. You've never talked like that during sex."_

 _"Do you mind?"_ he asks bashfully, too ashamed to even look at her. He can't explain the sudden need that came over him, to possessively state his claim before he'd made her come.

 _"No, I don't mind."_ She says sincerely _. "It was kind'a hot, really. As long as we agree it remains in the bedroom_."She pulls on his hair lightly, lifting his head to find his eyes, his solemn, silent nod sealing the discussion.

..

Two hours later, having eaten dinner, they lie on the sofa holding each other.  
Though the television is on, it's muted, and Charles lays on his back, looking at the ceiling, lost in thought.

 _"Charles,"_ she whispers, lifting her head off his chest to find his eyes.

He can see the tears in her eyes and knows what she's going to ask. A frown spreads on his face as he lifts his arm over his eyes, obscuring his face and his emotions from her view.  
Though she knows it's too soon, and she dreads bringing it up, she can't help herself anymore. She feels like she's waited and waited for him to say something, anything about it. For one, she needs to know where his head is at. Second, Elvis was her friend too, waiting for Charles to talk about it, meant holding her own shock and grief in, and she just can't anymore.

 _"When is the funeral?"_

He lets out a long shaky breath before he answers and she knows he's trying to keep his tears at bay.

 _"The day after tomorrow."_ He finally says, gritting his teeth and swallowing hard. She then feels him move under her. _"Let me get up, Molly,"_ he pleads quietly _, "I need to use the toilet."_

She knows he's lying. She knows he just wants to avoid crying, or avoid her seeing him cry. She wants to tell him it doesn't matter, that she's seen him cry before, that he's allowed to mourn and cry and yell, she'll understand. She'll be there for him. Hell, she'll probably join him in the yelling. But she knows he won't accept it. Knows it will only push him away. Make him hide further behind his walls. You can't make Charles James do anything he's not ready for. Everything on his own terms. She'd learned that a long time ago. So, reluctantly, she rolls off him and lets him go, setting her focus back on the television, keeping him on her peripheral as he moves around the house.


	3. 3

_A/N - Tissue. xx_

 **3 |**

 _"Will you come with me to the funeral tomorrow?"_ he asks quietly as they lie in bed the next evening.

She's surprised by his question, having thought it's a given that she's going. For her own sake, and for Georgie as well as Charles. She wouldn't let him face that on his own. He'd been there when she'd buried her best friend. She now realizes it's his way of apologizing, of making sure things between them are okay, of letting her know he needs her. She relishes in that realization. Despite his muddled mind and whatever battle he'd quietly been having with himself these past 24 hours, he still needs her by his side.

 _"Of course."_ she answers, wishing she could placate all his worries with that simple answer. She then snuggles into him, wrapping his arms around her. _"I love you"._

| OG |

Dressed in full dress uniform, Molly has no choice but to respect regulations, and avoid holding Charles as much as she would have liked. She can see him struggling beside her, his face sealed as he greets his soldiers and fellow officers. But every so often, a painful memory has him close his eyes, and release a long silent breath of air, trying to keep it together. She can only squeeze his hand tightly, before taking her place beside Georgie, holding on to her as the tears flow from both their eyes.

Charles had spent the entire day yesterday, holed-up in his library, trying to find a quote good enough to read at Elvis' funeral. But, it seemed, the English literature could not sum up Elvis' unique character in a few short, eloquent sentences. _Elvis and eloquence,_ Charles thinks to himself, _now there's a contradiction._  
But as he takes his place at the podium, fighting to hold on to an inkling of composure, grasping at his stern-face-captain disposition, he finds the words he'd battled for yesterday, mean nothing today, and only one word screams in his mind as he looks at the watery eyes beneath him.

 _"I'm sorry,"_ he stutters, shocked at his own admission. _"I won't speak today as a captain in her Majesty's armed forces. I wasn't captain Harte's officer. I was Elvis' friend. I wish to speak today as Elvis' friend."_

He breaths deeply, feeling strangely relieved. A weird kind of peace comes over him, allowing him to go on, his composure no longer a mere mask.

 _"There's really only one word, popping into my mind now, thinking of Elvis. And I think you'd be rather surprised, it's not 'Prick'."_ He can hear a few giggles, and knows those are the people he's talking to, the people that really knew Elvis, the people that will understand. He fights against his tears, working hard to keep his breath in check and his voice strong and stable.

 _"The only word I can think of to describe Elvis, is love. Love for his country, love for his job, love for those of us he chose to let in and carry with him. Because, when he did that, he turned us into the luckiest people on this earth. When Elvis loved, he loved fully, unconditionally, devotedly. And he'd be willing to move mountains to be there for the people he loved. He'd go to the ends of the earth to help us, to save us. To the ends of the earth. Literally."_

And with that, he can't hold it in anymore. All the places he'd been deployed to with Elvis, all the times that bloody idiot had had his back, saved him, even from himself, come rushing through his mind, leaving him gasping for air. He takes a moment to gather himself. Remembering something. His duty.

 _"He'd left me a letter."_ He admits, taking a folded piece of paper from his pocket. _"He asked I tell you about his name, once and for all. Said he knew, it was always the first question everyone thought of. 'What kind of name is Elvis anyway?'_  
 _It took a long weekend, a dirty bet a lot of hard liquor for me to get this out of him, so listen up: Elvis Jonathan Harte, was actually born Jonathan Elvis Harte, but switched his two names officially, at 16, as soon as he legally could.  
'Anyone can be a Jonathan,' he said. 'But you'll never forget a guy named Elvis.'" _


	4. 4

**4|**

The nightmares began the night after the funeral. He'd been up till the small hours of the night, trying to avoid sleep at any cost.  
Knowing his mind was full, replaying horrific moments from this tour while he was awake, he was apprehensive at what would happen when he'd succumb to sleep.  
And he was right.

The first night, or early morning really, he'd woken up screaming, panting, drenched in sweat.  
Molly at his side trying to calm his shaking body. He clung to her helplessly, as if confirming to himself she's alive and well. The next moment he was buried inside her, his lips clinging to her skin, his hands framing her head in an almost aggressive attempt to validate both their existences.

It went on like that for a while. For a few weeks, it became a nightly routine; He'd wake up shaken and calmed down only through her body.  
She didn't complain. Understood it was something more primal than logical, and it was exquisite sex after all. But she'd soon come to realize, it was an escape, rather than a coping mechanism.

For three nights, as they lay sedated in each other's arms, she'd tried coaxing him into a conversation, ask him about his nightmares and his feelings, hoping that the physical outlet, along with the concealing darkness would allow him to let go and open up. But to no avail. He'd shut her down and pretended to fall asleep, though she could hear his mind working, and his heart pounding in fear.

On the fourth night, she tried something else. And failed miserably.  
As he woke up and searched for her body, she held him tight and soothed his trembling, but refused to give in to his physical escape.

 _"Come on, Molls."_ He pleaded, confused and frustrated, trying to work his way to kiss her body.

 _"No, Charles."_

 _"What do you mean, no? You don't want to make love to me?"_

She could sense the hurt and anxiety in his tone.  
He'd known this was coming, knew she'd eventually put a stop to his cowardly behavior, but he could stomach the rejection. She deserved better than this, better than being treated as a vessel, but he couldn't face voicing the thoughts in his mind. And he was terrified she'd be fed up with him a leave.

 _"I do, Charles, but not like this. Talk to me Charles, tell me what's go on."_

 _"I don't want to talk. I want to bleeding fuck my wife,"_ he said angrily, regretting the words the minute they came out, but unable to take them back.

 _"Well, your wife is a package deal. She has a brain and a heart on top of a vagina. And you don't get to choose when to utilize one rather than the other."_ She huffed, trying to hold her hurt at bay, and keep communications open.  
 _"Baby,"_ she changed her tone, _"talk to me. let me in. It might help if you talk about it, tell me what's going on in that head of yours."_

But he was being an arse. Whether he meant to or not, he kept pushing her away.

 _"Utilize, huh? Another big word."_ He was arrogantly mocking her now.

 _"Really, Charles?"_ she asked, her tone small and hurt as she tried to catch his eye.

She could see he was ashamed of his behavior, he just wasn't able to get past it. It was hurt and anxiety that were acting out more than anything, she just didn't know how long she could let him get away with it. She saw his distress, she just couldn't fathom his coping mechanism.  
Until now he'd always kept her close, valued her proximity, their emotional intimacy, he'd let her help him get through things, embrace her like a balm to his wounds. But this time he was isolating himself and keeping her at bay, humiliatingly reducing her to be only a vessel to obtain his cock.

 _"Fine."_ She huffed when she realized their exchange had come to an end.  
Turning around and pulling the covers over herself, she tucked herself into a ball, away from him, and attempted sleep.

She didn't know how much time had passed. She lay awake, looking at the familiar shadows of their room, her mind was reeling and her heart aching at his pain.  
She didn't know if he was asleep or not, didn't dare turn to look at him.  
Eventually, she moved to get up, his voice catching her the moment she swung her legs off the bed.

 _"Don't leave me."_

It was a mere whisper, but it exposed the extent of his fears, his agony, and his helplessness. He sounded so lost and afraid.  
She turned to look at him, his eyes huge and scared, his body frozen in place on the bed, as his worst fear played tricks on his mind.  
She let her fingers find his, barely touching as she lightly caressed his frozen fingertips _._

 _"I'm not, baby. Never. I'm just going to get a drink."_

 _"I'm sorry."_ He whispered, his finger fluttering at hers to increase the contact.

 _"I know."_

They sat in silence for a moment, looking at each other, until a shiver ran through her from sitting outside the covers.

 _"How 'bout I make that two drinks, yeah?"_ she said quietly, attempting to soothe his fear and distract them from their loss.  
She could see he was exhausted and hoped some warm milk with a twist, would be enough to allow him some sleep. He nodded silently and pulled his hand back from hers, anxiously waiting for her to come back.

He felt like a child, being cared for, helpless, irrationally scared of letting go of his mother. As if, if he couldn't see her, she'd seize to exist.  
He berated himself for being so weak and foolish. For failing to be the man she fell in love with. But when she came back, he was drawn to her, flooded with relief.  
Holding his drink in one hand against his chest, he curled into her, laying his head on her thigh, mumbling apologies again.  
She sat there in silence, accepting his fatigued retreat into a semi-childlike state. Her fingers, skimming through his hair, finally lulling him to sleep.


	5. 5

_**A/N -** Thank you all for your lovely reviews and support, it means the world to me. I'm sorry to say, this chapter does not make things any better, yet. It's darkest before the sunrise, right? xx Picpicpic_

 **5 |**

At 21:22 she's about ready to go to the police. She knows it was too soon, and unreasonable at that, but she was at her wit's end.  
He's never just not shown up. He was never even late. And if he was suspecting he might be late, he'd send a message or call.  
And then today – nothing. He just hadn't shown up for their appointment. Or since.

She was used to him now disappearing in the mornings, used to waking up to an empty bed, and him coming back from his run drenched with sweat when she'd already finished breakfast. She knew it was a coping mechanism, she'd used it herself. Pounding the paths, to the fresh air of a new day coming up was a way to gain some order, some space, to put your head back together. And to avoid communication.

She was even getting used to his odd schedule. He didn't always tell her where he was going, if he had to be at the base or not, but he'd let her know at some point, in some way, that he was alright and when he could be expected. But today – nothing. He'd just disappeared without a trace, ignoring her attempts for contact, leaving her to her own merits, despite their plans.

 _"Where have you been? I've tried calling and texting. I was waiting at the doctor's office, I thought the plan was to meet there."_

She bombards him the moment he steps through the door. Her concern at his absence, obvious.

He's caught by surprise at her sudden attack, wincing as he realizes he'd forgotten their doctor's appointment.  
But he doesn't like her tone, or her accusations or having to defend himself and his actions. _It feels like Rebecca all over again_. He hates that thought even as he thinks it.

 _"I was at the base, sitting through an endless fucking briefing about the clusterfuck that was this tour, having to listen as they tore apart every fucking moment, in which things were out of my control and turned to shit."_

He was getting angrier as he spoke. It wasn't at her, but he couldn't stop himself.

 _"Which you would have known if you cared about anything other than that thing."_ He says, carelessly waving his hand in the direction of her stomach.

It was the most he had said to her in weeks, the most he'd articulated about the tour and how he felt, but she could not overlook his disregard towards their baby.

 _"This THING is your baby girl!"_ she yelled back.

 _"You sure about that?"_

It came out before he could even think, before he could even fathom where the thought had come from, before he realized she was sharing her news about their baby's sex. He sees her blanch in front of him, her eyes wide and then filled with furry.

 _"What did you just say to me?"_

It's then that it all comes crashing down on him. What he'd said, what he'd accused her of, the extent to which he'd hurt her.  
He doesn't know where it came from, it was never a clear thought in his mind.  
He trusts her inexplicably, with his life. He loves her to no end. He needs her by his side. Especially now. He's terrified that she was going to leave him. That he'd push her away far enough that she wouldn't come back. But he couldn't blame her if she did. He was being a dick. An arse. A wanker. He was treating her appallingly and he didn't know why. Or how to control it.

 _"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I-"_

 _"Save it, James."_

She's furious now. She never calls him James.  
He's rooted in place, scared to breath the wrong way and lose her.  
She takes a few breaths, calming her mind, her eyes boring into him.  
She won't let him see her hurt. He can see her build up walls matching his own, to protect herself from him.  
He was losing her before his eyes, and it was his fault.

 _"Molly,"_

 _"No. Don't. I don't want your scared apology. I deserve better than that. You need to get your shit together Charles. Decide, if you want me, and our baby, or not.  
I've let you take your frustrations out on me, but I won't let you hurt our baby. You need to make a choice, Charles. And show me you're doing something to change this._

 _"I know you're hurting, I know you've lost a great deal out there. But we've always been able to get through these things together. We got through Afghan, together. We got through Smurf dying, together, and Georgie's kidnapping. You came back then and told me that you wanted me no matter what and I could feel you fighting for us. Through all the shit, you held on to us a let us help you through it._ _But you're not this time. And I don't know why. I'm not sure you know why._

 _"If you won't talk to me, talk to someone else, professional or not, that's your choice. If you're unhappy with your job, be brave enough to find a solution. If you're unhappy with me, if I'm the problem, if you want out,"_ her voice brakes at that point, her eyes widening with disbelief at her own words, but she keeps going, determined, _"be honorable enough, to be honest with me. That's all I ask. Until you make that decision, I'll be sleeping in the study."_

 _"Molly –"_

 _"The study, James, because I won't leave you until you ask me to."_

That was all she could give him now. She could feel her resolve slipping, her hurt getting the better of her.  
As much as she tried to remain rational, understanding, accommodating, there was only so much crap she could take.  
And he'd just gone and strode way over that line. Accusing her of what? Sleeping around while he was on tour? Reducing her back to the insecurities he knew resided at her core? Taking advantage of all the work he'd known she'd done for him, to be able to be with him, to build herself to feel his equal, worthy, his partner.  
It was the most hurtful he'd ever been in his life. Yet he didn't know why.

She was right in everything she'd said. Even with him shutting her out, she could read him like an open book. She knew he was dealing with his loss. She knew he was dealing with his mistrust of the system he'd served for years, for which he'd led soldiers to their death while fighting to keep them alive and she knew, what scared him the most was losing her.  
Even now, in her most devastated state, after everything he'd done, she wouldn't give up on him. But she couldn't allow him to hurt her anymore. Or their baby. He understood that. He loved her for that. Her protectiveness. Like a lioness protecting her cubs.

He'd seen it that first tour in Afghan, her insistence to be there for the lads, and for Bashira, for anyone she'd come to care for. She had cast her defense to protect him too, when needed throughout the years. Made him feel safe and appreciated. Let him feel her love for him. Now she used it to protect him from himself. He was such an idiot. At her most vulnerable, when they were supposed to be rejoicing in their pregnancy, her changing body, her nurturing moods, her nesting period, he'd lashed out in the worst possible way, driven her away.

He could hear her sobbing in the study, imagine her curled up in the folding bed, letting go of everything she'd held in as she stood before him and put him in his place.  
It broke his heart. And he came to realize that he deserved it because that's what he'd done to her. The woman who saved his life, physically and emotionally, more than once, he'd gone and broken her heart. He was such an idiot.


	6. Mums know best

**6 |**

 _"Mom,"_

She could hear it in his voice. The distress, the helplessness, the fear.

 _"Charles, what's wrong?"_

 _"I've ruined everything, mom. I'm such an idiot. I've been acting appallingly, and she's sleeping in the study, and I don't know how to fix it."_

 _"Who's sleeping in the study, Molly?"_

 _"Yes, mother, who else. I sat the entire night outside her door, but I must have fallen asleep, because when I woke up, she wasn't there anymore. I don't know where she is, mom, what if she's left me?"_

 _"Calm down, Charles, she's probably at work. Did you try her phone?"_

 _"No. I didn't think of that."_

 _"Charles, honey, what's going on?"_

 _"I, … I, … I'm such an idiot, mom."_

His silence says more than his words. Even over the phone she can sense his exhaustion. He's practically frantic.

 _"Charles, where are you?"_

 _"At home."_

 _"Do you need to be anywhere today?"_

 _"No."_

She can feel his distraction as he answered her, as if his mind is somewhere else, chasing after something he can't quite comprehend.

 _"Okay, honey, I'm coming over. Go have a hot shower in the meantime, and we'll have tea, and you can tell me all about it. Everything will be okay."_

Twenty-five minutes later, having let herself into the house, Margaret James arrives to find her son pacing around the living room, his phone to his ear.

 _"Her phone is off, mom. She's left me, I know she has."_ He says the moment he sees her, without any greeting or surprise at her appearance.

He looks distraught, anxious, tired, thinner than usual. Like he's carrying the sorrows of the world on his shoulders.

 _"No Charles, she's on base, she has lectures all day today. There's some special conference today with the NHS. And her phone probably just died because she didn't charge it through the night."_

 _"How do you know all this?"_

 _"I wrote to her after I spoke to you. I'm sure she'll contact you once she gets a chance."_

 _"No, she won't mom, she hates me. And rightfully so."_

 _"Okay, honey, let's calm down. Let's go to the kitchen and make some tea, and you can tell me all about what happened."_

 _"I hurt her mom, I hurt her in the worst way I ever could."_

 _"What do you mean?"_

 _"I, I missed the doctor's appointment yesterday and, - it's a girl, by the way, – and she told me that yesterday and I didn't even react, and she thinks I don't want the baby, and I do, mom. I do. A baby girl."_

She can feel the emotions pour out of him, but she's hardly able to follow what he's saying, his mind jumping from one thing to the next, his confused emotions racking havoc on his thought-process.  
She can see the symptoms, and fears what this is. As a physiologist working with veterans, she's seen this before.

 _"Charles, when was the last time you've had a good night sleep?"_ she asks as she sets a cup of tea before him.

He sips it absentmindedly, which is already a tell, because he hates tea.

 _"Uh, what?"_

He's so confused at the sudden change of subject. Did she not hear what he'd said; A baby girl.  
He can't express his excitement, a beautiful mini-Molly, who he'd protect and cherish and love. A girl to teach him all the things he has no idea about, who'd grow up to be strong and independent, like her mother. Like her beautiful, beautiful mother, who he's probably pushed away forever.

 _"Uh, I sleep at night. Some."_ He tries to refocus on the question. _"Mom, have you been listening to me at all? Molly's so angry, she'll never forgive me."_

 _"Yes Charles, I have been listening, though you're not saying much. And Molly will forgive you. Whatever it is you've done, you'll fix it. You two love each other, and you'll get through this, together. So, you've missed a doctor's appointment, Molly will not hold that against you, I'm sure there was a good reason."_

 _"No, mom. I mean, yes, there was. But that's not it. We had a fight yesterday, because I've been acting like an utter idiot, and I, I, I blamed her of cheating on me."_

 _"You what?!"_

 _"I asked her if she's sure the baby's mine. I didn't mean it. I didn't. I don't think it. I don't know where it came from and I don't know how to fix it. Help me, Mom. Please."_

To say Margaret is surprised, would be an understatement.  
Not only that he'd ever accuse Molly of infidelity, but of the pleading tone in his voice as he turns to her for help. The lost look in his eyes.  
He'd never been one to ask for help, always so intent on doing things on his own, conquering goals, being the resilient, self-regulating captain, he's grown to be. But now, he's back to being a boy, lost, pained, asking his mother to protect him from the world, and from himself. But she can't really. She can only tell it to him like it is, direct him to the right path, which he'd have to choose to take himself.

 _"Charles, honey, you're not going to like what I have to say, but you've asked for my help, so I ask you listen."_ She can see his walls going up. _"From the little, you've told me, and what I can see and figure out, honey, I think you might be suffering from symptoms of PTSD."_

 _"No, mom. PTSD is for soldiers injured on the battlefield, soldiers who can't deal with what they saw, soldiers who lost -"_ he can't go on, realizing he fits the description.

 _"Let me tell you some of the symptoms, and you'll tell me if anything sounds familiar. Nightmares, lack of sleep, fear of sleep, diminished appetite, bouts of unexplained anger and aggressiveness, self-isolation, avoidance, uncontrolled negative thoughts, flashes of traumatic events. Do any of these, sound familiar to you?"_

He sits silently for a moment, matching the list to his experiences in the past few weeks.  
Eventually, he nods slightly.

 _"Okay. PTSD is a disorder, Charles, you know this. It's treatable, but you have to be willing to face it."_

He sits there, silent and frozen, all the fight leaving him, his features dark and grave. Dark thoughts of shame and self-doubt running through his head.

 _"Charles, what would you do if one of your soldiers would be showing the symptoms you're showing? If Molly would be suffering like you?"_

She knows it's what would get him into gear, pull at his professional strings to find a solution to a problem. Can see him wake up from his stupor and consider her words.

 _"I'd make sure they get the help they need and support them 100%."_

 _"So, will you allow yourself the same treatment you'd afford your soldiers?"_

He thinks about it for a moment. He knows it's logical, but does he want to go and talk about what happened on tour? Spill his guts about all his insecurities and all the shit going through his head? Is he ready to be labeled as suffering from PTSD?

 _"I need Molly. I can't do it without Molly."_

 _"I know you do, honey. And you've got her. She'll stand by your side, just like you would stand by hers."_

 _"But I hurt her, mom. Why would she forgive me?"_

 _"Because she knows it's not you, she knows you're suffering. Because she loves you and wants to build a family with you. You don't just give it up after a fight. But you have to let her in, Charles. You have to let her stand by your side."_

" _I don't how to make it better, how to fix it."_

 _"Talk to her,"_

 _"I don't know if I can, mom, it hurts too much."_

 _"Well, who do you usually talk to, if not Molly?"_

The answer is clear, immediate. A vibrant image floating in his mind.

 _"Elvis,"_ he whispers, his eyes filling with tears and his heart breaking again.

Margret takes in his grieving figure, her warm hand covering his, as she tries to give him strength.

 _"You know, just because he's gone, doesn't mean you can't talk to him. He's in your heart, Charles, and it might help you to embrace him, instead of trying to make him disappear."_

His eyes raise to find hers, a tear trickling down his cheek. How does she know?


	7. 7

**7 |**

He hadn't noticed it'd gotten dark, and cold.  
Sitting on the bench, lost in thought, his eyes glued to the quote engraved on Elvis' tombstone, he hadn't noticed anything, until she was sitting right beside him. But he hadn't dared breathe or move or feel until she put her hand in his.  
Then, relief washed over him like a 40-feet-high Tsunami, and the everlasting feeling of falling through the unstable earth, was replaced with the feeling of safety, and the terrifying realization of the danger he'd been in. _Just like he'd felt on tour_.

It's then the tears come flowing. Endlessly, uncontrolled, unashamed, loud sobs racking his body as he clings to her hand with both of his, holding it tight against his forehead, disabled with relief and pain.  
He hadn't even known he was waiting for her. He doesn't know how she knew where to find him. He can't believe she's here and hasn't given up on him yet. And he cries. And cries.  
Until she puts her arm around him. Until he falls to his knees in front of her, his head in her lap, his hands clinging to her waist, careful of her baby bump. Until she folds over him, covering him with her body, protecting him from the world, holding him tight and letting him cry. Silently crying with him.

 _"I don't deserve you."_ he mumbles into her.

 _"Shhhh,"_

 _"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Molly. Utterly, infinitely sorry."_

They stay like that for a while, both oblivious to the passing time, until the tears run out and a sad silence falls on them.

 _"You need to get up from the floor, Charles, it's probably freezing."_ She whispers in his ear eventually, her fingers soothingly scraping at his skull.

He shakes his head slightly, uncaring for his own state, unwilling to disconnect from her.

 _"Please,"_ she says quietly. _"Come on. I've brought coffee to keep us warm."_ She says as she raises herself from him, her hands moving to her bag to fish out the warm thermos.

 _"Ever the medic, Mrs. James."_ He says, smiling, reluctantly peeling himself from her and taking his place beside her on the bench, a weird feeling of shame and bashfulness taking over him. He silently takes the cup she offers him, letting his fingers defrost on the warmth.

 _"How did you know I was here?'_

 _"I called your mother when I came home and couldn't find you. She told me about your conversation."_

He nods silently, wordlessly thanking his angelic mother.

 _"I've set up an appointment with Dr. Stravinsky on base."_ He confesses, letting her know his words are backed with actions. That he's ready for change.  
But it's not enough. He doesn't want her to think it's a replacement to talking to her. That she's not enough. That he could ever do this without her.

 _"Good."_ She says quietly, sensing there's more.

 _"I feel so guilty, Molls."_ He stares into his coffee, and she gives him the time he needs. _"I feel so many things all at once. So many thoughts are going through my head, I feel like I'm drowning in them. And holding you is like air, like being able to breathe. And I'm scared, if I hold on too tight, I'll suffocate you. If I tell you everything that's in my head, you'll end up drowning with me._

 _"But I can't do this without you. I can't. I don't want to. You were right. I wasn't fighting for us, and I'm so sorry about that. I've failed you. And I'm truly happy about our baby girl. I never got the chance to tell you that yesterday, but I want you to know. I don't want you to doubt for a second, my love for you and our little girl. You deserve better than me, you both do, but I swear to you, I'll fight this. I'll fight for us. I'll get better for you and our little girl. But I need you with me."_

 _"I'm right here, Charles. 100% by your side. Always."_

His eyes move to find hers before moving back to the grave, yet she can still see pain in them.  
She panics for a moment with the thought that he doesn't believe her, that he's regretting it when he confesses something again.

 _"I was jealous of him,"_ he whispers quietly as if admitting to a dark sin burdening his soul. _"He had Georgie with him on tour. He died in her arms. He got our wish – the love of his life was the last thing he saw. And I thought; you and I can never have that. If one of us dies on a tour, the other will never be able to be there. How messed up is that, Molly? How much of a selfish prick am I, to think that of my dying friend? My best friend?"_

His eyes find hers again, and she can them filled with shame and guilt, and terror. She's silent for a moment, confused and surprised by his confession, knowing she must find a way to calm him, to placate his guilt, to enable him to let this go, forgive himself.

 _"You're not, Charles. At all. Remember that quote you read at Geriant's funeral? 'We are not wholly bad or good.' We don't control our thoughts. It's our actions that define who we are, and you were a great friend to him. It's natural you were jealous that he had Georgie with him on tour. And we're not always logical when we're grieving._ _And this tour was hell for you, and confusing and messed with your mind._

 _"But you have to remember, you and I made the decision for us to be the first thing we see every morning, instead of the last thing we see. We chose to share our life, Charles, instead of our dying moment, heavens forbid. And I don't regret that choice. Loving you was out of my choice, but following my heart and marrying you is the wisest choice I've ever made. I don't regret it for a second, Charles. I never will."_

 _"Ditto, Molly. Ditto. Never."_

Her hand is in his hands again. He holds her tight as if the tightness of his grasp will divulge the fervor of his feelings.  
He brings it to his lips, showering her palm with kisses, too insecure about her reaction if he were to initiate further contact.

 _"Charles,"_ she says quietly as she watches his regret unfurl, it's like he's vowing to her again. _"I need us to go home now, it's bloody freezing here."_


End file.
